


passion

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [18]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester in Hell, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:11:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Hell reflects its ruler. Hell is, always, essentially Hell.





	passion

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'Cuddling' square.

Hell's vaults gape, empty. Cathedral-sized absence. Banked fires glow in the distance but there's no warmth. When Sam took over he did away with burning. There are so many other ways to inflict pain.

The room is small, a little shabby. A facsimile of a cabin, though not one they knew: log walls, windows covered in green plaid curtains, a fireplace. A bed, iron-framed with a creaky box-spring, just barely big enough for two. Sam stands at the door, his back to the room, waiting. He's patient. He's learned to be, over the years.

It took a moment to adjust, back then. He came down with blood on his teeth and a righteousness in his veins, and Hell was—what he expected, at first. Torture and darkness, screaming and demons' mocking laughter. Blood and sharp knives, everywhere. He killed so many in that first incursion, a sulfurous haze it was hard to see through, but he knew what he had to do. When he touched the throne, at last, the ramifications shivered through everything. In an instant he knew—knew everything—and the weight of the knowing made his vision blur, his legs suddenly too weak to hold him. He went to one knee before the seat, his heart thudding strangely and slow in his ears, and before his eyes the throne transformed from a grotesquerie of bone and iron to a plain, sturdy wood. Trying to reflect him. It was still a throne.

Sam stands at the door, looking out. He doesn't require attendants and doesn't want them, but the demons cluster at the edges of his vision, waiting. Everywhere he goes fills to the brim with smoke. His eyes are still human, in a lot of ways, and so looking out he sees: a cavern, high-ceilinged and deep enough that the walls disappear into darkness—but also a dark night on an empty street, buildings rising high on all sides with no lights and no one in them. He closes his eyes. It hardly matters; it's all a lie, trying to make up something that reflects his expectations. The only thing that matters is right here.

There's a soft sound, behind him. A breath. Shaky and weak, but there. Sam closes the door, closes away this separate space. Demons aren't allowed here. It's something he pays for, in an essential way, but that doesn't matter. This is important. Sam leans his forehead against the wood (real enough that he can feel it), steadying himself, before he turns around.

Dean's curled on his side, on the bed. Naked, of course, because they always deliver him naked. He's pale, now. Too much time out of the light. Sam comes and sits on the edge of the mattress and doesn't dare touch him, not yet. He never can tell how much pain Dean will be in and he doesn't want to make it worse. In the firelight, there are no wounds, no cuts, no sores. His eyelashes lay a dark fan over the darker circles below his eyes, his mouth soft with something like sleep. His hand is open, lax on the blanket, and Sam so-carefully touches the center of his palm with one finger. He's warm. Sam bites his lips between his teeth, doesn't make a sound. He waits.

All that fury, all that violence expended. Relationships destroyed. If there was a way to save Dean, Sam would take it. Problem is: the demons knew it, too. He's not sure any of them knew what would happen when he reached out his hand and took what was offered. He certainly didn't. Sometimes, in this stretch of endless night, he wonders if he would've made the same choice, if he knew what was coming.

Sam's stretched out on the bed, arms folded under his head, when Dean finally stirs enough to be considered waking. "Morning," Sam says, soft, and doesn't look at him. He doesn't, anymore. It's not fair, maybe, but he doesn't have the constitution for it.

Dean's eyes, red as though he's been crying for a long time, eyelashes wet and clumped dark. That horrible moment of clarity coming into his face, horror pealing from his soul like a struck gong, before the carefully-constructed safety of this room clamps down around him. From beside Sam there's a strangled gasp that gets let out slow, and a sniff. "Let me sleep late?" Dean mumbles. His voice is so threadbare it sounds like it could be laryngitis.

Sam turns onto his side. He's naked now, too. Clothes seem like such an afterthought, here. Dean's frowning, grinding the heel of his hand into his eye socket. "You needed it," he says. Dean never knows how true it is. He reaches out and traces a finger featherlight over Dean's eyebrow, tapping the end of his nose. He gets a little glare and he smiles, scrunching further down so their eyes are level. "How are you feeling?"

Dean swallows, face flinching. "Feel like I got ran over by a truck," he manages. Sam lets his fingers trace down over the bare skin of his throat, careful still. The nerves don't seem to be frayed beyond mercy, this time, but he has to tread lightly. Dean closes his eyes, clearly pained, but he lets Sam do it. Sure sign that it's bad. He always used to be a terrible patient when it was nothing serious; he dealt with it better, somehow, when he knew what was on the line. "God, this sucks. Who gets the flu, anyway."

Sam traces his finger down to the hollow of his throat. "People who don't get their shot," he says, lightly. Dean huffs. An old argument, between them. Easy to pick up, to fake, for this. "You need anything? Water?"

Dean shakes his head, tipping his face down into the soft of the blanket. He just looks so weary. "Just have to puke it up," he says, and Sam wonders—something he expects, because of a flu? Or some new torture? He doesn't know and doesn't want to know. Not fair, maybe, but—well, so little is. Dean shudders, his muscles clenching hard, and Sam lays a grounding hand on his chest that Dean covers with one hand. "Sorry," he whispers. "Just cold."

"Yeah," Sam says, heart filling his throat. "Heat's out."

Dean doesn't seem to notice the fire, putting out only light. He swallows again, painfully, and Sam slips closer, lifting Dean's head so-careful to tuck an arm under his neck, to lay the other cautious over his side, to let Dean's knees slide in against his. He still has his body heat. He never died. It's one thing he's actually good for. He gets a sigh, Dean's head tucking down below his chin. "Not gonna be the little spoon," he mumbles, breath tickling Sam's chest.

Sam rubs his thumb over Dean's unbroken ribs. "Course not," he says, and lets Dean fall asleep tucked against him.

Sometimes Dean's skin hurts so much he screams when Sam touches him. Sometimes he arrives so mottled with bruises he looks like a corpse, blood-bloated and horrible to look at. Sometimes he arrives with his bones shattered, places on his body so soft that Sam's touch dents them down like a too-ripe pear, and Sam has to stagger to the corner of the cabin and retch, then, even if there's nothing that can come up. Dean doesn't understand why, or what happened. The cabin, by Sam's design, is a safe enough place, his mind sheltered and given a little respite. He doesn't get to be entirely free, though. No one does.

Sam killed—

First there were the low-level idiots, arrogant with their hard-earned power, who thought they could defy him. He dealt with those without thinking. Then came the malicious upstarts who wanted to manipulate their way to his good graces and they could be useful, but they didn't have the answers he needed. He sat on the throne, because it was his, and closed his eyes, and brought forth the remaining princes of this place, Asmodeus and Dagon and Ramiel, and they mocked and then squirmed and then begged for life, but none of them knew how, none of them could change it. Sam had touched the throne and something snapped unchangeable into place. He had made a deal that could not be undone. No matter what he did, the throne was still the throne, and he couldn't give it up, and he couldn't set himself free, and worse, worse than all of that—

Lilith explained, before Sam killed her too. Seals, and rituals. Anagogic requirements. Everything, she said, bewildered and furious, was out of order. First was to come the shedding of blood, and the cracking of the locks. Sam wasn't meant to be here. Hell wasn't meant to be his. Once she was dead he found Alastair, and when Alastair could speak again after Sam was done with him, he got one last answer. Hell was created to cage something in, to cause torment. Suffering permeated every part. It would be as futile, he'd said, to try to remove the pain as it would be to try to take the metal out of the core of the earth. Even if one succeeded: what then?

Sam hasn't let Alastair die, yet. There have been plenty of volunteers to keep him alive. He'd looked up at Sam, from on his knees, and nodded at Dean's body where it stretched trembling on the rack. _There's a reason they call it a passion_ , he'd said, and smiled.

Dean wakes up again, with a groan. "Okay?" Sam says, stupidly, and Dean makes a small caught noise in his throat, and rolls onto his back, spread out on the bed. Sam props his head on his hand and watches him. Drinks him in.

The freckles that used to spatter his shoulders, his arms—they're gone, now. The skin on his chest is nearly translucent, blue veins running clear that Sam can trace. He hates it, so much, but sunlight's not an option anymore. Dean drags his hands down his face, touches his throat lightly and grimaces, and rests his hands on the soft concave of his belly. "What time is it?" he says.

"Doesn't matter," Sam says. He lays his fingers on top of Dean's, covering his hand with his bigger one. "We're not going anywhere, not until you're better."

Dean slants a look at him, slitted through his eyelashes. "Okay, Mom," he says, grumbly, but he's got that faint satisfied look to him, too.

Even pale, even fragile, he's still gorgeous. His body's still Sam's, familiar, fitting perfectly into the places where Sam's hollow. His hips, his thighs. The pale neat bones of his feet. His dick, soft. The neat and perfect turn of his ear. It's rare that he wants anything, but Sam slips careful fingers down his belly, down the faint trail of hair, and Dean's lips part enough to see a slip of darkness, his breath sighing out when Sam gathers him into a cautious grip. He rubs his thumb gentle over the root and Dean's mouth curls up, but he tips his head and looks at Sam, finally, regretful. "Sorry, Sammy," he says, and he really does sound sorry. "Think we're both too tired. I gotta turn in my stud card."

Sam's throat hurts. "Pretty embarrassing," he says, lightly, and doesn't let go. His eyes simmer with tears he absolutely cannot show. He rolls in on his elbow, brushes his nose against Dean's temple, his cheekbone. Breathes his smell. "Hey, Dean."

Dean sounds sleepy, again. "Yeah, Sammy."

He breathes in deep, makes sure there's a smile in his voice. "You think you could kiss me, at least? Get me a little something for the effort?"

"Dog," Dean says, but affectionately. "C'mere, dumbass." He tips up his chin, his fingers grazing Sam's chest, and he doesn't seem to notice that Sam's the one wearing his amulet, that Sam's lungs are starting to shudder with trying to hold back. He kisses Sam soft, closed-mouthed at first, and when Sam presses him gently open he sighs into it, sluggish reciprocation, just a glance of his tongue, his lips plush and still perfect. He tastes a little like sulfur.

Sam lets his head sag, his forehead pressed against Dean's. Their noses brush, their breath mingling together. There's not much time left. "Want to sleep a little more?" Sam says, letting the weight of power sit behind it.

"Yeah," Dean mumbles, fingers curling lax against Sam's skin. He turns Dean over, on the bed, pushing him onto his side so that Sam can cover his back. His nose buried in Dean's hair, his hand on Dean's belly, his knees tucked into the back of Dean's knees. Dean covers Sam's hand, but he's slipping away fast. Sam closes his eyes and breathes to match Dean's breath, and for a minute or two, there in the dark made warm by their two bodies, he's grateful.

When they were kids they stayed for a month with this old friend of their dad's, some army buddy, and he had five movies on VHS, every one of them by Mel Brooks. Sam used to think, in sour moments, that that's where Dean got about half of his vocabulary. Whenever Dean would win a foot race, or manage to scrounge up more change for the ice cream van, or when he'd get a girl's number that Sam wasn't even trying for, he'd turn that arch smile Sam's way and he'd say, smug, _it's good to be the king_. Sam always wanted to smack him one, back then. He'd give anything to hear it again, now.

Sam wakes up, out of a half-doze, and Dean's gone, and the bed's cold. He turns onto his back and stares up at the fake log-cabin ceiling, fake firelight flickering over it and making shadows. They have those down here, in abundance. He curls his hand over the amulet, holding it hard enough that the metal horns dig into his palm.

Torture, torment. Misery. Hell's cup runneth over. Sam touched the throne and it transformed for him, but no matter what it would still be a throne. It couldn't be removed, or destroyed. He stands and finds clothes, a habit it's hard to let go of, and opens the door to the cabin. Hell awaits, in all its deep vaulted emptiness. Silence pours forth when Sam steps out, and waits breathless when he closes the door. He ignores the shadows at the edges of his vision. He'll come again tomorrow. He may not be able to change everything, may be impotent in the ways that matter, but he has that, at least. Once a day, there's rest. A king's privilege.

 

**Author's Note:**

> in my defense, it didn't say it had to be nice cuddling.
> 
> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/179578442484/passion)


End file.
